Don't Think About It
by TwistingMoonbeam
Summary: ONE-SHOT. After another emotionally-scarring adventure, Morty is fed up with Rick's advice to "not think about it." But to Morty's surprise, not all of Rick's methods are just pure madness. R&R appreciated!


**Don't Think About It**

Rick could really be a dick sometimes.

If Morty was honest with himself, Rick was really a dick _all _the time. He had his random spasms of kindness, but what did they account for, in the end? A couple of extra solid, deep breaths wouldn't do anyone any good if they were somersaulting through oxygen-lacking outer space with a cracked air helmet. Those extra three breaths, four at most, bought them a couple of seconds of life. But in the end, the compounding, infinite mass of space would squash anyone's head clean open, brain matter spilling out into the cosmos like egg yolk.

That's how Morty felt about Rick. Rick gave him those extra breaths, for sure, and they were relieving and made him feel good and different, too. But like the sorry sap astronaut, when it came down to brass tacks, Rick made Morty feel like his head was fricking _exploding. _

Rick had his issues. Morty knew that. Ever since Bird Person enlightened him of the true meaning of Rick's catchphrase "Wubalubadubdub," things had changed. The sad truth was that Rick didn't seem as badass and manic, if he was really someone crying out about some bleeding, deep pain. He seemed much more humane, relatable. Everyone had problems—even Rick, apparently, had some thumping, painful hole drilled inside that he tried to fill with alcohol and venomous insults.

But particularly, Morty had begun to notice Rick's _other _catchphrase. His _other _means of dealing with the unnatural terrors he dealt with daily, and the very same prerogative he pushed on Morty whenever his grandson was freaking out from the very same terrors.

Morty plotted, and backpedaled, and reassured, and mustered up some of the courage he had to dig up just to not die whenever he was running from female intergalactic alien assassins or face-to-face with the overlord to a dimension that worshipped horses. But then he'd take one look at Rick, placid and glazed over and lips smudged with whiskey, bravery whooshing out of him in a one-two punch. He couldn't bring it up. He couldn't ask. Mostly because he was a little afraid of the answer.

As per usual, things didn't go the way he wanted.

**XxX**

Morty had been having an especially stressful day. Ever since Frank had been frozen (and, apparently, pushed over, breaking into tiny, bite-sized pieces of pushy asshole), the bully hierarchy had shifted, allowing Prince Drayke Sloane to become King. (Drayke wasn't as ruthless and sudden with his bullying style as Frank had been, but his locker slams were pretty impressive, Morty had to admit.)

So, along with dealing with a bad incident with Drayke earlier that morning (Morty was more so annoyed than hurt, which he supposed was an effect from Rick strengthening his backbone—but Morty also couldn't take anyone who spelled "Drake" with a "y" seriously), he'd also accidentally splashed water from the fountain onto his pants in front of Jessica and come home to _another _argument between his parents. He numbed them out, their vicious bickering muffled when he'd slammed his bedroom door and curled a pillow around his head.

Morty only managed to get a couple minutes of solace before Rick had burst in, blabbering on about scientific prattle Morty didn't understand. Before Morty could grouch, Rick had grabbed his arm and yanked him into a fizzling green portal.

In reality, the adventure hadn't been _that _emotionally scarring. It scared Morty to think he'd been through worse, but it'd still been bad.

They'd travelled to a dimension called Grunggrich: the landscape was peppered with colossal mountain ridges that faded into the distance with the evening mist. The sun was a bright, burning red, and the place gave off a kind of _Lord of the Rings _vibe Morty would have liked if he had just left after sneaking one glance.

But they were there on business. Under the mountain on which they'd arrived was a criss-crossing collection of mines. Rick needed a specimen of one of the jewels they commonly mined for some crazy new invention, and the king of the mountain, Cleeto, was happy to oblige.

"You will find our Krimchar gems to be the best in all the land," boasted King Cleeto as he led Rick and Morty down into the mines. "Don't believe the underhanded rumors that our nemesis kingdom Trilggnap harbors better—secrets coil around this world like a tightly wound snake, ready to bite."

"That's—that's some pretty dainty fightin' words there, King Cleeto," Rick commented, surveying the dirt-encrusted corridor they walked through. "I guess they diEEUUGHHdn't need to send a p-poet this time, huh Morty?"

Morty agreed, appreciating the reference, but the blood drained from his face as they entered the mines.

Slouched up against the walls of rock, raising pickaxes in their puny hands, were children that couldn't have been older than him. Their clothes were threadbare, merely dressed in loincloths and stained rags, and they groaned as they hacked at the rock, fingers dripping with blood and tears. Morty watched in horror as a little girl who had to have been at most ten pluck a gleaming, contorted blue jewel from the rock and drop it into a bucket at her side, her ponytail moving at the right time for him to spot the whip marks on her back.

"Aw, jeez," Rick complained, rubbing his forehead.

"Wh-what are you _doing _to them?" Morty stuttered, gaping.

"Oh, I see you've notice the workers!" King Cleeto sang, clapping his gargantuan hands. "You see, the jewels can only be held by the hands of a child. The intense, deadly bioelectricity of the Krimchar gem reacts well with only young blood. If an adult were to touch it, they'd burst into flames!" He chuckled. "So we've had these mines established for hundreds of years now, employing the village children to work. That's why our currency here in Grunggrich is called Inno-cents! Catchy, huh?"

Morty curled his own puny hands into fists. "Oh, my God, _Rick_—"

Rick sensed an outburst, so he cut in quickly, "And I'm sure your kiEEUGHHngdom has fl-flourished with such…_efficient _economic handling. But, ey, uh, the rock?"

"Oh, of course!" King Cleeto trilled. He clapped, and a young boy, clad in the mining "uniform," scuttled out from his place in the line before the walls of rock. Morty felt a punch to the gut at the sight of the boy's crutch, one of his legs bent askew. In the other hand he held out a velvet pillow, a huge purple jewel shining in the dim, flickering light.

"Thaaaaaaaank you, Evals," King Cleeto drawled, snatching the jewel right from the pillow. "And now, your reward!" With a grin, he unleashed a whip he'd been hiding under his coat and slashed at Evals's face.

Morty's eyes widened.

Evals fell to the ground, shaking and groaning in pain. When he raised his head, an angry red zigzag ran across his cheek, but without a word, he picked himself up, bad leg and all, and limped back to his post.

"You have to enjoy the sniveling ones," King Cleeto mused, wiping his bloody whip with a handkerchief.

Morty felt as if steam was coming out of his ears. "You—_you freaking monster_!" he yelled, pointing.

King Cleeto merely cocked one eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"You'll have to _excuse _my gr-gr-_grandson_, King," Rick interjected, kicking the gem at Morty, who caught it in a furied daze. "You know the adolescents—once they get h-hormones, you ain't goin' back t-to pacifiers and dumbass, brain-melting t-teEEGGHlevision to calm 'em down."

"Quite right." King Cleeto gave that sinister grin again. "You know, Rick, your grandson would be an _excellent _addition to the work force, if you wanted to give him up! There's always a spare pickaxe to share around."

Rick's eyes sharpened. He switched on his portal gun and shot, grabbing Morty and plunging into the swirling green vortex.

On the other end, Morty stumbled at his landing, catching hold of Rick's workbench for support. He was trembling from head to toe.

"What _was _that?" he shouted, turning.

Rick took a long sip from his flask, rolling his eyes. "Look, Morty, yeah, I know, I—I get it, you're _not _an advocate of ch-child labor. Preaching to the half and half choir h-here."

"_Half and half_?"

"Grunggrich is _thriving_, Morty."

"Oh, for the love of—h-h-how can you not be d-disgusted?" Morty demanded. "I—I mean, they were younger than me! He _offered _me a _pickaxe_!"

"Just d-don't think about it. Easy friggin' peasy," Rick advised. He opened the door to his safe, turning away.

"_Why do you always say that_?" Morty snapped, chucking the Krimchar gem into the safe.

Rick's went rigid.

"Every s-single time! Is—is that supposed to make me feel better? Blocking it out, for-forgetting it ever happened? It doesn't _work _for me, Rick!"

"Morty—"

"I—I can't drink l-like you, I can't forget it like you! And—and even if I manage to forget about it d-during the day, it all comes back at freaking _night_, anyway! You've shown me some pretty _effed up_ stuff, Rick, and I remember it all, like I'm keeping a freaking journal!"

"_Morty_—"

"So, no, I'm not just gonna—I'm not just gonna _not think about it_! Stuff like that is stuff you can't just get off your mind with—I dunno, a freaking _bubble bath _or whatever! Stuff like that…it _stays _with you, it eats you, and no amount of stupid booze or pushing it away will ever make it better, I'm not like you Rick, _I'm not like you_—"

"Damn it, Morty!"

A light slap struck Morty's face—not hard enough to hurt, but harsh enough for Morty to stop in his tirade and meet Rick's somber gaze. Rick got on one knee and held Morty's shoulder. "I know, Morty, I _know. _Thank _God _you're not like me. Thank God you're at least fucking _trying _to face the goddamn d-demons I've shown you."

Morty blinked blearily. "Rick…?"

"M-Morty, I tell you not to think about it 'cause it's _easier. _God, you don't think I hear you wake up every night, dreaming about yet another god_damn _monster I've exposed you to? No, you're n-not quiet enough."

A flush crossed Morty's face.

"But you're _facing _them, Morty. You're effing _trying. _You go back to sleep every night after those dreams." Rick lapsed into silence.

"But you don't," Morty said softly.

"This isn't a-about me."

"Th-then what is this about?"

Rick rose to his full height, a shadow over his face. He made for the door, hand hovering above the knob. "The booze doesn't woEEUUGHHrk that well, so don't b-bother with it."

"Then why d-do you bother, Rick?"

"Because it works."

"And not thinking about it? How does that work?"

Rick tensed.

"How 'bout next time," Morty suggested, clearing his throat, "we find a way that works together?"

Rick met his eyes, raising half his unibrow. "Next time."

"Next time," Morty reaffirmed.

Rick shrugged. He looked exhausted now, sagging under an invisible weight. But he nodded nonetheless, a bob of his head. "You'll know where to find me."

When Rick was gone, probably up to his room or to harass Jerry in the living room, Morty took a seat at the workbench, his eyes sliding over the portal gun, the safe, the gadgets, the tools, the inventions, the blueprints. Rick's exhaustion came to mind, and a terror bloomed inside Morty's chest at the thought of Rick, the steel-encrusted stone wall that was Rick, waking up from nightmares around the same as him, but retreating to his lab instead of going back to sleep. Rick, hearing Morty's nightly shout of horror as he woke up from being chased, consumed, killed, torn apart, abused, and thinking Morty's pain was all his fault.

The images hurt in a way Morty had never experienced before, but he didn't shy away. He thought about them for a long, long time, before finally rising from the bench and making his way to his room.

Morty didn't sleep, despite how much he wanted to, and instead just listened. He waited, until finally, at three in the morning, he heard Rick's door open. Tiptoeing, he followed Rick to the garage, where Rick started to sketch out some plans for an apparent new project.

Morty rapped on the open doorframe. "Need someone to sharpen your p-pencil for you?"

Rick was surprised, but he shook it off quickly and welcomed Morty with his usual grouch, nagging at Morty for not being asleep. But Rick seemed much more at ease now, his knobby fingers no longer twitching and his lips upturned slightly more into a smile.

For the rest of the night until the break of dawn, Rick and Morty conquered their demons together.


End file.
